


A Brief History of Control

by Qion



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier? - Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gen, Queerplatonic Relationships, but it gets better, but they have the rainbow road of relationships, its there at the very end i swear, whoops more angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-16 10:13:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14809341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qion/pseuds/Qion
Summary: Darkiplier and the Host may have their similarities, but it would be hard to avoid them considering the long history of influence they both had over each other. A very long history.Also: the history of how Dark and the Host met and the long journey into the present from thereAlso also: Qion can't stop writing stuff about Dark and the Host and you're all going to have to pay for it





	1. The First Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there
> 
> this is just the result of writing stuff about dark and the host and getting way too into speculation
> 
> feel free to tell me all about how much this sucks because i think it does too and im glad that we can connect over something

Dark wasn't safe or powerful when he looked in the mirror and chased the District Attorney out of their body. Damien was still wracked with guilt, grovelling for an alternative with blue wisps while Celine pushed for control and shoved him with sharp bursts of red. Settled between it all was a monochrome body that Dark couldn't recognize as his own as he stepped back, taking Damien's cane with him. The house was empty, devoid of its host and previous guests to create a silence that weighed him down. 

A few rooms down, Dark could barely make out the sound of faltering running and a wavering voice that called out for the two people that he embodied. Despite how much Damien and Celine both struggled for power over the broken Attorney's body, both of them reached out for William, to tell him that they were alright, that he would be alright too. 

Together, they managed to stumble forward towards their old friend before Dark interfered and turned around with a sharp turn of his heel. No matter the protests that immediately fired up in a bi-colored flare, approaching William now was not what he needed. His legs burned with the effort to keep him upright and both his back and his neck burned with a sharp pain whenever he tried to move, but Dark could care less about whatever pain he was holding now. Including the one that tore itself from his chest. 

All he knew was that he needed to get out of the house, with or without William. Alone once more and longing for something else, Dark fell into the black miasma that surrounded him and left behind the pleading and begging that boomed from his friend. 

He didn't know how far he traveled through the nothingness, seeing only black for miles on end with no end destination in mind. Every so often, he would spot a flash of blue or red to his side and see Damien attempting to turn back with an outstretched hand or Celine seething furiously on the body she claimed as her own to try her hand at sabotage. The body that could barely hold one mind now struggled to hold onto the grief of three and Dark could feel the pressure forcing him down as the emotions of the others demanded attention. 

The further he walked, the fainter the two became. Damien’s solid blue form quietly faded down into a murky blue outline of the body he once owned while Celine’s body flashed with violent bursts of red before it settled just next to what was once Damien to lash out at something that neither of them could see. 

The house could no longer keep up with the distance between them, slowly peeling away the power it had granted the Seer and the Mayor to force command onto the exhausted Dark. There was a ringing in his ears that slowly rose in pitch as he left, drilling a sharp sting of pain into his head. 

He didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t know what to do, but Dark was free and that was what was important. 

Somewhere within him, he felt the briefest rush of guilt run over him as he thought of William still wandering around the cursed house, driven to madness by Dark’s own greed. In a short-lived attempt to pull himself together, Dark took a deep breath and reasoned that he would be of no use to William now, that he could come back later to assist him when he was more powerful. 

Still, Damien and Celine remained unconvinced as they tried to pull him back into the reach of the house and to their friend, the quiet urgency sprouting from both that drove in the point that if he left now, there would be no second chances for Will. 

Letting out a weary groan, Dark stepped out of his aura and onto a ground covered with dirt and an impressive amount of foliage. The sun was out, but it was considerably filtered by the vast amount of intertwining branches and thick trunks that tangled together to form a web over his head. Here, he could no longer hear Celine’s furious shrieks or Damien’s muffled begs to return. Dark walked only with an ever-present outline of red and blue in their place, silenced by the fading of their power. 

He had to blink a few times to adjust his eyes to the change between a single color to a multitude of green and brown that weaved itself together into a blurry forest. Dark was still unsure of where this exact location was, or even how far it was from the house for that matter, but he did spot a place of potential information out of the corner of his eye.

Tucked away from the clearing he was in was a small wooden cabin with a faint light leaking through the windows. He almost missed the spot of yellow amongst the rest of the green that shadowed it, but Dark was quick to make his way over to the cabin once he was certain of its location. 

He may not have been proud to ask for help, but he thought that one request would be better than wandering around on his own where he was prone to the environment and those that knew it better than him. 

As soon as he drew close enough to reach the door, Dark held a hand up and tapped the wood lightly with his knuckles. The slight contact it made sent a sting down his wrist, but Dark simply waved it off when the door opened to reveal a grinning man. 

His figure was illuminated by a television screen behind him, casting a bright light across the small room. In his hands, he tapped a baseball bat against his palm in a persistent rhythm. He wore a dark gray dress shirt, the collar being popped in odd places that seemed to ask to be smoothed out. Behind him was a mess of mechanical tools on a nearby table and the floor, creating a dangerous crowd of wrenches and saws that could easily cause some major damage should someone misstep. When he caught sight of Dark, he didn’t seemed scared or even mildly surprised by the discoloration of his skin or the blue, red and black aura that trailed behind him.

In fact, Dark would even dare to say that he looked like he was expecting it. 

“You came just in time, Dark,” he announced calmly, a hint of haughtiness lacing his words. “Or did you change your name again before you got here?”

The dull ringing in Dark’s ears snapped to a shrill screech as his colorful shell momentarily cracked into two. “You shouldn’t know that,” he warned, tendrils of his aura stretching out to block the light coming from the cabin. 

A burst of laughter came from the man as he set his bat to rest on his shoulder while his other arm leaned against the doorframe. “So what if I do? What’s the harm in that?” His grin widened into an almost sinister smirk as he leaned forward. “Trust me, a little extra knowledge is going to be the least of your concerns.” 

“That knowledge should never leave the place it originated from. A confident fool like you has no right to access it,” Dark hissed, stepping forward until he towered over the man who still seemed completely calm with all of the events that were happening before him. With what he was saying, Dark could see why.

The bat wavered on his shoulder as he studied Dark’s face before stepping back, holding up his free hand in a mock surrender. “Fine. You got me,” he drawled. “Besides, that Celine would probably beat me to death if I went any further. Isn’t that right?” 

Oddly enough, instead of looking Dark in the eyes as he had boldly been doing so, his head tilted to the right to look straight at something next to him.

Dark briefly saw the red to his side flash, snapping out towards the man with outstretched fingers. However much Celine’s irritation influenced him, it was clear the man would continue to run circles around him until he grew bored. With a deep breath, he straightened out his suit as the red slowly subsided to return next to the dormant blue. 

“Where did you get those names?” Dark asked, his voice hinting a threat should the man attempt to dodge the question. 

The man only swung the bat down to rest on the floor as he pulled up a chair to sit in backwards. “Call it a gift of sorts. Usually, I get to control who is made and what happens, but what was unfolding with you and your group was fascinating enough without me.” He let out a sigh and allowed his cheek to fall onto his closed hand. “Isn’t that something? I don’t think I’ve came across a story as riveting as yours yet,” he hummed dreamily.

The praise he was handing himself was poorly hidden, but Dark could tell that there was something more to this man than what met the eye. The conceit that he held wasn’t without reason. 

Littering the table were a variety of books, some of them bound and already published while others were nothing more than a loosely gathered collection of rumpled papers. They wouldn’t have bothered him, but Dark was able to sense a trace of a power hidden within the papers. 

Something that was beyond his control, but a playtoy to the grinning man in front of him. 

“I suppose you had me come here on purpose then,” Dark concluded, holding his hands behind his back as he stepped inside. 

“On purpose?  _ I _ made this conversation possible,” the man huffed, crossing his arms with a stern expression on his face. “You seem to really enjoy swindling me of the credit I deserve.” 

The combination of the odd man coupled with the recent events that quite literally changed his world, Dark couldn’t find the strength to banter back and forth any longer. “Fine,” he muttered. “What do you want?” 

“That’s easy.” 

The man stood up again, face to face with Dark as he spoke. “You’re weak now, still confused and hazy.” 

His hand darted forward to shove Dark, and with the lack of reaction time that came with inhabiting a new body, Dark could only fall backwards into the forest. His jaw locked into place as he glared at the man who only followed after him. 

“But I can see power in you. You may not be aware of it now, but the potential in you is overflowing. Especially with the two others that you’re carrying around.” 

“What’s your point?” Dark interrupted, a sharp wariness echoing in his head from Damien. The man cleared his throat and stepped forward with a slow walk. 

“Stay with me and I can help amplify what you already have,” he said simply. “You’ll be feared, whispered about, revered,  if you just let me in.” He smiled, but Dark could sense a hint of a darker emotion lurking behind his kindness. “There may not be a God, but I can make you the closest to one that anyone could ever reach.” 

An outstretched hand was offered alongside a beautifully executed offer from a mouth that could twist words at will. 

With the fatigue that overcame Dark, Celine and Damien were quick to jump up to the helm. Celine cursed and pushed him to take the deal, to seize the chance to become stronger where she failed. Damien was hesitant, leaning away from the man and asking Dark to reconsider such a deal with a morally questionable figure. 

In the end, they both fought down two different paths for the same goal. In their hearts, the safety of William was still what they desired most above anything else.The only thing that separated them from a singular plan to follow for their beloved was Celine’s drive to wrestle reality to bend to her will and Damien’s unshaken resolve to keep his conscious as clean as possible lest he become too dangerous for any form of grace to be given. 

Celine pushed as Damien pulled, but Dark could only feel himself moving in one direction. He took the man’s hand and shook it firmly, earning him a broad smile. 

“Excellent. Come in and I’ll set you up for tonight,” he said cheerfully, turning back to the cabin. 

“And you don’t have a name?” Dark questioned, following behind closely as he entered the small building once more. 

The man turned back around, kicking his bat to the side with a lazy foot and a sharp laugh. “I don’t need one. After all, there are many writers, but only one Author.”


	2. A Refusal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> welcome to it gets worse part 2

Dark could remember a time when he approached the cabin in the woods with caution. When he was still living on a flickering resolve and had nowhere else to turn, anything and everything became a potential threat. 

Now, Dark wasn’t even sure if he was the same person from that time as he opened the door to the familiar cabin without a second thought, entering as if he was in his own room. As soon as his shoe touched the interior, Dark swiftly ducked as a bat swung a clean arc over his head, right where his chest would have been if he was just a second slower. 

With a sigh, Dark stood back up and straightened out his neatly folded jacket. “I hope you realize that repetition isn’t the best tactic for a surprise attack,” he commented, a bored lilt to his words as he glanced down and the man in front of him. 

The Author stepped aside to set his bat down with a dramatic groan. “You wound me Dark,” he exclaimed, holding one hand to his chest. “I was only trying to recreate the golden times when you still lived here.” 

“You broke my ribs,” Dark said stoically, a deadpan look on his face as he crossed his arms. 

“I was helping you build character,” the Author retorted, firing back his defense with a quick tongue. 

“Twice.” 

“Did you learn nothing?” the Author asked, a teasing tone hiding behind his words. “The longer the pain, the quicker the development. I’m sure you use that all the time, Mister Head-of-Office.” 

Silence briefly rushed in between the two, locking the jesting Author and quiet Dark in place for a few moments before a Dark let out a loud groan. “Fine,” he grumbled, the two tones that composed his voice doubling the amount of bitterness he held. 

A loud laugh erupted from the Author’s chest, contagious enough to force a smile onto Dark’s face. The reclusive writer sauntered further into the cabin, collapsing onto a chair without much grace. Dark followed suit, pulling up a discarded seat in the corner of the room and taking a seat with much consideration for his clothes. 

However, the jovial mood of the Author swiftly crumbled away as he studied Dark with an intensity that Dark had rarely seen in him. “Something’s wrong,” he said abruptly, not posing a question or a request. The Author made a statement that he knew was true and it was up to Dark to explain it. 

“DId you not already plan out our conversation?” Dark replied smoothly, entwining his fingers together to form a picture of calmness. At least, a picture as close to calmness that he could get when the slight pang of uneasiness washed over him from the Author’s seat. 

“I’ve done all I could with your story,” came the answer. “I don’t interfere with characters who can run by themselves. Especially not ones so familiar with me.” 

“Then how can you claim to know my reasoning for this visit?” Dark continued, his voice steady as he pushed forward all of his skills at acting. If there was anything that he did learn from the Author, it was the importance of keeping face in a conversation. 

Which was why the simple answer that came from the Author completely shattered that carefully groomed talent of his. 

“You aren’t on schedule.”

That one sentence was said with all of the confidence in the world, the certainty of knowledge that could only come from a fixed accuracy. And it was true. 

Dark’s schedule was an asset that he required to carry out the lifestyle he had, juggling leisure with management and maintenance in a timely manner. It was only now that he saw it, and he didn’t know how in the  _ hell _ he overlooked such a telling error, but he was supposed to visit the Author the next day. 

That was the way it had been since he had first left the writer to test his powers in the world around him and that was the way it should have been if Dark hadn’t been so eager to rush to the Author. There was nothing Dark could use to retort to that observation, not when the Author had a keen eye for patterns that sprouted even out of his writing. 

Seizing the muteness that he had forced Dark into, the Author continued to list off predictions. “What kind of help are you looking for? Is it Wilford? I can’t change his storyline any more than I already have with him though,” he started, his guesses blurring together into one incomprehensible attempt at molding the future. “Are you finally dealing with your first rebellious Ego? Ah, or is i-” 

“Author,” Dark interrupted, the dull ringing surrounding him jumping in pitch as his shell momentarily cracked. His voice was quiet, but it rung throughout the room to curl around every open space. “I respect you, but you really are an egotistical bastard.” 

The Author fell quiet, his confident air faltering for a moment before it was quickly re-built with a grin and a wave of his hands. “What else did you expect? I tend to be right about a lot of things,” he hummed. “But this is certainly interesting.” 

He allowed his hands to fall back onto his lap, leaning back with the open posture of a listener and the smug face of a vain man. “Go on then. Tell me where I’m wrong.” The corner of his lips twitched upwards into a challenging smirk. “Surprise me.” 

And Dark was ready to. There was certainly a desired outcome that he wanted to appear out of this conversation, and he may have faltered a few times, but now was his chance to redeem himself. 

“As you are aware, there have been many empty positions in Egos Inc. for some time,” he began, leveling his voice to keep a steady tone. “Many of them have been occupied, but there are sti-” 

“I have thrown you out of every window in this room and you’ve done the same to me,” the Author interjected sharply. “I am not one of your business partners. Don’t speak to me like one.” 

For a moment, Dark faltered yet again. The red outlining his body briefly flared to life while the blue seemed to shrivel under the scrutiny it was facing. With a deep breath Dark was able to soothe the emotional wisps to compose himself once more. 

“I would like for you to move in with me.”

It may have been cruel of him, but Dark felt the beginning of contentment embrace him when he saw how the Author was knocked off of his “high and mighty” persona. His eyes were wide as he stared at Dark, a shocked expression that he couldn’t control etched onto his face.

Finally, the Author was silenced, leaving Dark to steer the conversation in the direction that he desired.

“I have allowed for you to continue on alone for all of this time, but things are changing,” he explained. “We run the risk of being forgotten on our own. I’ve already had three Egos come in nearly faded away.”

At those words, the image of an enthusiastic show host, a rowdy salesman and a rather pathetic superhero all came to mind.

“You may control the world we live in, but you cannot change how well the audience remembers you.”

“What’s the catch?”

Dark was caught off-guard by the sudden question, sharp around the edges and designed to drive through his slow persuasion. “What?” he asked, blanking as the Author looked up to meet his gaze.

He didn’t know if he felt hurt or worried to see the pure suspicion that adorned the Author’s body. His legs tucked under the chair, his arms drawn close to fold against his chest while a set of narrowed hazel pupils completed the image of paranoia.

“Nothing is free, Dark,” he said, an unconscious harshness looming over an unspoken accusation. “Damien can tell you all about that if I haven’t already drilled that into you.”

At the mention of the familiar name, the blue aura slowly started to peak out from the red that overshadowed it.

“We are not kind people. Everything has a price, but you and I have always been better at obscuring that number,” the Author continued. “I didn’t think that you would try to pull that on me though.”

Dark kept his mouth sealed, despite the one explanation that he wanted to say clawing at his throat.

“Come on, what do you want?” the Author asked, his voice raising itself in volume as he tore apart the entity in front of him for an answer. “More favors? An extra employee? A guard dog? Say it! What do you want?”

And before he could do anything, Dark felt himself being pushed aside by an unusual suspect that slipped past the layers of defense that he had up. The blue aura around him drowned out the red for the first time as he opened his mouth and heard himself shouting back a response.

“ _ I don’t want you to disappear too! _ ”

Both Dark and Celine worked together, struggling to pry Damien away from the amount of control that he had swiped away from Dark to no avail.

Celine knew how to talk, how to tuck away facts and emotions for her best interest. Damien clung to his honor, but above all, he refused to be taken away from those he called friends and perhaps that was what had horrified Dark.

“I don’t want to come back here and find you gone! I don’t want to be left with an amnesiac as the only person who can remember me! I don’t want to have to wander alone again! I don’t want you to  _ die _ !”

The words fell out Dark’s grasp and into Damien’s, all of what he had tried to keep locked away being spilled out in front of the Author’s feet until all he could do was pray that he would accept it all.

Maybe if the Author looked surprised, or confused, or maybe even disgusted, then Dark would have been able to plan accordingly, even if it hurt.

But all he received was a blank look.

Damien faded back, driven away by the lack of a response to his breakthrough and sent fleeing back to Celine’s side as Dark was shoved back up to somehow pick up the broken pieces that the Mayor had created.

There were no more arguments, no more attempts at swaying the other as the Author refused to allow any of his thoughts to escape him. 

The silence absolutely tore Dark apart. The lack of a response was something that he used often to get others nervous, but this was the first time that it had worked on him so effectively. He was left desperate for anything except the various interpretations that he had formulated on his own. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Author quietly spoke up. 

“I think you should leave.” 

There was no emotion behind his sentence, no hint to how he felt or what he was thinking. All he gave was a command and Dark could do nothing but follow it. 

Now, he finally felt calm, in control of his reactions and a glance to either side of him revealed why.

To his left, Damien appeared in a deep blue shade that covered his entire body, pressing his hands to his face as his chest heaved and shivered with silent tears. To his right, Celine writhed in a startlingly bright red, spitting curses and rage-fueled threats at the Author without a sound escaping her snarling mouth.

Dark was left in the middle, void of any grief or rage while the two others snatched up any other emotion that they could get their hands on. Without a word, he silently stood up and left the cabin behind, stepping into his aura until Damien and Celine could do nothing but disappear to follow after him.

The Author did not return with him as he had hoped. Still a mystery that could be gone by the following week, Dark left behind his closest friend and couldn’t find it in himself to return.


	3. Uncertain Conclusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay it gets better after this chapter. just let me have this last go at the author and then i'll be good.

The Author had to hold some respect for Dark, especially since he was able to witness the amazing transformation that he had somehow managed to pull off.

When Dark was left in the District Attorney's battered corpse alongside Damien and Celine while William was sent chasing after a delusional hope, the Author allowed himself to tweak a few words to guide Dark over to him. No sooner had he lifted his pen from the future transcript that he would follow did he hear a knock at the door and open it to find that there was so much more than what he had anticipated.

The man at his home was confused, skeptical and terrified of the two people who would now be trapped within him. Dark lashed out when he was prodded at, but from these attempts at defense did the Author sense the start of something stronger. He saw potential in him, a great source of fuel from the Mayor and the Seer that could be burned to create something more powerful. The only thing the Author did was light it up. He slaved over his desk while Dark stitched himself together, slowly allowing the strength that he had acquired to trickle into his body. In those times, the Author found much delight in taking a few hits at him, striking him with a few sharp blows that were easily healed with a paragraph. It may have been unethical, but it certainly drove Dark to heal much quicker than he expected, if only to get back at the Author.

Before long, Dark was flitting in and out of the cabin to start his own life, fighting back when the Author took a swing at him. It started with a few small appearances in some videos, stoking the fans' interest before he made his grand emergence. His popularity skyrocketed and the Author quickly found himself to be relegated from a protective force to a friend that Dark was obligated to visit.

The ball that the writer set in motion picked up speed, Dark's powers multiplying until he was able to make himself the unofficial leader of the other remaining Egos. Every time Dark dropped by, the Author could find a new ability that he had picked up or a new talent that he had honed. However, he could not say the same for himself.

Life carried on in isolation, the way it always had, but there was a certain dullness that had slowly invaded his hands. The Author was no longer a terrifying figure, someone who could force reality to cater to his will with a few descriptive words jotted down on paper. He was a threat of the past, someone neutralized with the introduction of Dark into the public.

It was clear from the start that Dark couldn't see it, that he was still blind to the waning power of the Author. And the Author intended to keep it that way. If he could no longer strike fear into those who remembered him, then he at least wanted to appear strong before the person who had once looked up to him. That hope was what had inspired him to drive Dark away with his offer of protection, clinging to the last bit of strength that he owned before it too slipped away between his fingers.

But now, as the Author looked down and saw the way he no longer had a shadow in the faint sunlight, he knew that it was already too late. He was fading, _dying_ , and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

With heavy feet, he dragged himself over to his desk and slumped over his chair, his head spinning with the effort it took to keep his body running. In his chest, his heart seemed to beat out a pace that grew quicker with each minute until it tore at him to escape and start moving without the restraints of his other organs. He couldn't see straight and everything had a slight sheen to it, leaving him disoriented as he tried to keep his head up. His attempts failed in the end when he felt his forehead hit the wooden desk in front of him, leaving his head feeling worse than it already did.

It was such an odd feeling, to feel his form slowly draining away. Life was something that he had taken for granted, a simple concept that he could extend at will without a second thought. He was always in control of how he lived, but with that choice forcibly taken from him, the Author was at the mercy of the audience.

He let out a loud groan when a sharp pain shot through his skull, slowly spreading out to gnaw at the rest of his body. He didn't need to open his eyes to know that he was growing fainter, the constant ache an excellent reminder on its own. He had to wonder if this was how Dark felt when he first woke up, shoved into a body that couldn't hold a living person. His heart was starting to pound out a rhythm that he couldn't keep up with as he was quietly forgotten in lieu of other characters and trends that he couldn't see. Something beyond his reach. Until it wasn't.

It was with relief, and maybe a hint of madness, that the Author realized the clear distinction that he had forgotten. Instead of wilting away, he fought to snatch back his strength from this unseen force as he lifted his head up and reached for his pen. He may not be able to control how popular he was, but he still existed in the world that he could change at will. As long as he had a say, he would not allow himself to die without fighting back. His fingers could barely wrap around the thin pen, struggling to hold the additional weight up as he searched for a paper he could use. A finished manuscript was taken, the pages were torn out so he could scribble in the margin a sentence that would buy him some time.

" _The Author does not die._ " 

Just like that, the stinging in his head subsided to a dull throb, but his heart refused to calm down with this compromise. He was no longer growing lighter, but he wasn't solidifying either. 

His mind was racing for a solution now that he finally managed to stall the clock, searching for some way to preserve himself. Quietly, almost unnoticed, his thoughts turned to Dark. The way he had been created, a new person born of two others in an old body. The Author didn't have a body he could take, but the idea of being reborn was something that stuck to him. 

Now that he considered it, it was a possibility that he could take. After all, this body was already dying. Perhaps if someone new took over it while he relegated himself to the background, then he could cheat his way out of death. 

It was much more difficult to forget someone who was never introduced. 

With that, his pen flew across the page with a new agility that he had thought he had lost, ruining the margins with running ink and rushed descriptions in order to create a character of his own to take his place. His throat constricted, threatening to cut off his air while he was still breathing, but the Author only pushed himself further until half of the story he had kept away was covered in notes for something else he had never even dreamed of. 

When he was finally finished, the Author wasted no time in reveling in the glow of pride that usually came with a completed draft. Somehow, by some miracle, he was able to steal the conditions of his own death away from the iron grip it was kept in. And that would be his last accomplishment. 

" _Until_ _his work was completed, the Author passed away as was expected of him._ " 

He had to drop his pen when his heart finally took off without his consent, tearing apart at his chest, leaving him clutching at his shirt. With a twisted satisfaction, he realized that his skin no longer threatened to become transparent, coloring itself in to form a body that was dying, but not fading. 

He was no fool. He knew that such a trick was going to cost him a hefty price, but even he still had a way around that as he felt the pain that once consumed his heart jolt up to his eyes. 

Gasping, his hands flew up to his face to feel the sticky rivets of blood that streamed down. He flinched back when he felt something briefly brush against his eyes, a light touch that startled him more than anything. 

And then it yanked. 

The Author had to scream at the feeling of having a part of his body torn away from him, slamming his head down when his fingers clenched over his sockets and found nothing inside. Pressing down against the now empty space, he tried to cut off the pain from the nerves surrounding it. Even with his hands over his face, the Author could no longer see the light that had to come from the windows behind him. 

He had managed to save his mind at the cost of his sight, but he still didn't regret it. 

He didn't know how long he stayed there, curled up in his chair with some mixture of a scream and a sob forcing its way out of his throat. With no visual cue, the Author was stuck in eternity. 

With time though, what was once a searing knife to his head ebbed to a throb that refused to cease. He still didn't dare to take his hands away from his face, but he allowed his mouth to spell out a sentence, something akin to throwing a rock in a pool to test its depth. His voice was hoarse and scratchy, but all he focused on were the words that he spoke. 

" _In his place, the Host was born_." 

And his heart finally beat with the rhythm he needed to keep his body running. 

The Host couldn't see, his head ached something awful and he still didn't know how he was going to survive on his own, but a primal joy curled itself around him to force out a laugh. He cried, screamed, groaned, but all of it was encompassed in that one laugh that he let out as the final remnants of the Author left him behind as the sole force behind his body. His emotions were all drenched in desperation and panic, but that was what made this last release so addictive to him. 

" _The Host lives_." 

He pulled himself up, tilting his head back to allow his back to press against his chair. 

" _He was not perfect, nor was he ready to take back the power that he once had, but the Host lives. That was all he could ask for._ "


	4. The Second Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here comes the fluff
> 
> also i am so sorry for the lack of quality here.

Dark was busy enough, especially when he had to take on the job of keeping the entirety of Egos. Inc from running wild into the public. The daily occurrences and surprises that he had to keep track of slowly relegated themselves into the background as he shifted into his job, merely becoming another task he had to add to his already cramped schedule.

Which is why he locked himself in his office for a week. 

His hand was cramping from cycling between holding a pen and typing away on a keyboard and his neck was aching from the lack of movement that it had over his desk. It was always a bad habit of his to throw himself into something in order to distract himself from whatever it was that loomed over his mind, but he refused to leave the room until he was calm and collected as he always was. 

Ever when he had first woken up and saw his reflection in the mirror, Dark fled from the past and his friend and into the offers of power that the Author held out to him. But now that there was no Author to turn to, he used his work instead. 

At the mention of the vain man, Dark found his thoughts slowly creeping back to the issue that lay at the center of his isolation. He had yet to visit the Author since their last argument and he attempted to justify this multiple times to himself by saying that he simply didn’t want to aggravate the Author any further. The Author was more than capable of sending him from his desk to the chair in the cabin in a matter of seconds and it was only a matter of patience for Dark. 

However, his own words did little to hide away the truth that loomed over his guilt as he sat, bent over his desk. 

He could say all he wanted about respecting the Author, but what drove him away from visiting again was the fear that he would return to an empty cabin with no sign of the man who had once lived there. 

The Author may have kept up his appearance for a long time, but Dark could see the way he grew weaker with every visit. It was only a matter of time before he became no more. 

With a groan, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, a hopeless attempt at drawing his thoughts back to less emotional subjects. 

And then there was a knock at the door. 

The other Egos knew well enough that when Dark wanted to be alone, he would be alone. Finding Bim pale and shivering in the hallway when he attempted to approach Dark with a new show was enough of a lesson for the rest of them. That was why that knock begged the question of who exactly was  _ foolish enough _ to repeat that mistake. 

The normally dull ringing jumped in pitch as he stood up and opened the door, glaring at whoever it was who decided to interrupt him. He already had a threat ready at the tip of his tongue, but it faltered when he realized that he had no idea who was standing in front of him. 

Looking undisturbed by the monotone figure in front of him was a man in a tan trenchcoat, his hands in his pockets with an air of casualness. His hair was a deep brown that was slicked back, revealing a single golden streak that ran down the right side of his head in an odd contrast to the rest of his hair. If he didn’t already look odd enough, then the bloodied bandages that were wrapped around his eyes certainly completed the outfit.

It took a moment, but Dark was quickly able to find his irritation once more as he stared down the visitor. “And what exactly do you want?” he asked, the smooth question not at all matching the severe flashing of red and blue from behind him. 

The man had yet to be troubled by the unspoken threat that Dark held above his head, only clearing his throat before he answered. 

“The Host wishes to visit Darkiplier in order to answer any questions he may have regarding someone he once knew.” 

“Do you really think that there is something you know that I don’t?” Dark shot back, the shell surrounding him cracking every so often once he wrote off the newcomer as a hoax. 

“The Host is confident that he knows something about the Author that Darkiplier does not.”

For a second, all was silent before in a motion so slow that it could have been overlooked, the red and blue behind Dark stopped fighting out against him to slowly peek out from their spots. Dark was still skeptical of the man, but he was certain that if the Author wanted him to know something, he would do so in a foolproof way. 

“Get inside. Quickly,” Dark muttered, stepping back to his desk. As he took a seat, he heard quiet mumbling follow him in. When the Host, or at least that was Dark assumed he was called, got close enough for him to hear, he could see that there was something off about him. Mainly because he wasn’t muttering useless delusions himself, but he was describing everything in the room around him with bandages covering his eyes. 

In fact, Dark almost felt like he was watching a storyteller weave a story. 

“What do you know?” he interrupted, a sharp whip to his words as he watched the Host’s mannerisms carefully should he attempt to lie. 

The Host showed none, only shifting his weight slightly to the right as he faced Dark. “The Author is dead, but he has managed to give life to something else.” 

And just like that Dark was silenced. 

He didn’t feel grief or sorrow as he expected and once again he spotted the causes by his side. Damien was already crying into his palms, always the more emotional of the two, while Celine could only stand shocked next to him with wide eyes. Once again, Dark’s emotions were whisked away from him, leaving him alone with only the coldest of logic to suit him. 

However, it didn’t seem as if emotion was the only thing that the two figures had taken when Celine turned to him and pointed at the Host with a suspicious look on her face. When their eyes met, Dark could feel the accusation that she was casting on the Host. All he did was introduce it verbally. 

“You seem to be very familiar with the Author,” Dark commented, crossing one foot over the opposite knee as Celine moved to stand behind him. “I can already see many similarities between the two of you.” 

The Host tensed, his hands shifting in his pockets to hold onto what Dark suspected was something flexible of sorts. His calm air seemed to crumble away to be traded away for a defensive stance. “Despite what Darkiplier may think, the Host is not the Author. The Author is dead and will continue to be dead no matter what Darkiplier suspects.” 

At that point, Damien had quickly made his way to Celine’s side, standing by her to gaze at the Host with disappointment clearly written all over his face. Still, Dark persisted in order to get the answers he needed. 

“Do you have anything to prove that?” 

Three voices overlapped each other to form a striking echo that blended together into one sentence. 

The Host pulled his hands out and nodded. “The Host can provide a memory if Celine is willing to receive it.”

Dark saw the brief flash of red overpower the rest of his aura, stretching out towards the Host, desperate to use a fraction of the power she once had. He didn’t need to say anything because even though nobody thus far had been able to, the Host could understand what she was trying to communicate. 

He held his hand out and allowed a thin wisp of that aura wrap around his wrist and Dark found himself sitting in his chair in the cabin. 

It was extremely quick and Celine was obviously out of practice when it came to clearing up pictures, but Dark could make out the blurry form of the Author slouched over the desk. He saw how the writer picked up his pen and scribbled down something in the margins of one of his many books before he had to drop his pen to clutch at his eyes. He saw the way he screamed when blood started to stream down his fingers, writhing in his chair before he finally went silent. He saw the way he laughed as narrations started to fall from his lips before he was back in his office and staring at the crimson-stained bandages in front of him. 

It had to be the Author. There was no other way to explain the person standing in front of him with a mirrored version of the injuries that Dark had just witnessed. Even though Dark so badly wanted to believe that this was just some huge (and not unusually) cruel joke that the Author was pulling, he could tell that something was different. 

The Author always had a loud presence, making sure he was in the center of everything wherever he went. The Host did not. 

He was quiet, more calculating than the Author ever was. No matter how hard the Author may try, he would never be able to pull off the level of patience that the Host carried. 

Dark didn’t realize that the Host had moved until he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and saw the other hand reach for something a tan coat. As his fingers grappled for something, the Host talked. 

“The Host is not a living person. He only inhabits the body that the Author has given to him,” he murmured, his words coming out swifter than ever. “The Host is merely the Author’s last creation. The difference between him and any other character that the Author has written is that he was created purely for this world.”

HIs hand moved out of his pocket to reveal a bundle of papers soaked in a murky brown, the faded black ink of a pen pressing through the edges of the paper. The typed manuscript of something different was neat and organized in the center, but it was the scrawls littering the rest of the white space that caught Dark’s eye. 

“As the last person that the Author knew, the Host felt that it was appropriate to give Darkiplier the last account of his death and of the Host’s birth. The Host can tell that this is what Darkiplier truly desired.” 

His words were spoken softly, careful of the subject they were on and treating Dark with a soothing calm. However, his body language seemed to scream the exact opposite. The Host’s body was stiff, the muscles tightened beyond belief while his hands seemed to hold a death grip on the papers that he offered to Dark. 

He was right. Dark wanted more than anything to take those papers and study them, pouring over the Author’s last words until he had committed every letter on those pages to memory. He wanted to have something to remember the person he once held dear, but it was obvious that to accept it would be to tear the only connection the Host had to his life away from him. 

Dark was at a loss, debating over whether or not to take the papers into his possession when he felt a cool touch on his other shoulder. A deep blue washed over his body as Damien leaned over, meeting his eyes to offer his solution to Dark’s dilemma. He hated being kind, especially when it was Damien who suggested that he do so, but even Dark had to agree with him this time around. 

“You are wrong.” 

The Host paused, his hands still clutching the papers like a lifeline. 

“As far as I’m concerned, the last thing the Author had written was you,” Dark said, holding his hands in his lap. “Those papers are fairly meaningless when I have the result of those words standing in front of me.”

There was no response for a minute, the hand holding out the Host’s creation slowly shrinking backward. Quietly, almost going unheard, the Host asked, “And what does Darkiplier intend to do then?”

“Have you stay here,” Dark replied easily, the words coming naturally to his mouth. 

He remembered when he had offered the same thing to the Author only to return alone save for a strained connection that had snapped before he knew it. Dark was expecting to have the Host turn him down in the same way, but the contrast between these two people was made even stronger when the Host tucked the papers away safely into his pockets and gave a faint hint of a smile.

“The Host is grateful, much more than Darkiplier realizes.”


	5. Into the Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the ending that's inconsistently light compared to the rest of this thing

The Host found that at Egos. Inc, there really was no such thing as a medium when it came to the company he lodged with. The rooms were either overflowing with noise, shouts, and laughter that erupted from closed doors and crashed into the halls, or filled with a deadly silence, especially in Dark's side of the house. That wasn't to say that he wasn't happy with where he was now, he really couldn't have been more satisfied anywhere else, but the abrupt changes in sounds were something that he had yet to grow accustomed to. 

The cabin in which he was created was the perfect home for him. There was a peaceful lack of noise created by human voices, nothing to startle or draw attention to. And yet it wasn't a complete void, the rustling of leaves against rough branches and the wind whistling through small crevices carefully painting a landscape for him to take in. No matter what Dark may try to do, there was just no feasible way for him to replicate the Author's old cabin and the land it was hidden in with such a small space. 

And the Host was fine with that. All it meant was that he would need to make some adjustments of his own. 

So the Host worked away in his office, redecorating and adding various items with care until he could make something that he could call his own. The room he was granted was by no means constricting, but the tall bookshelves lining the perimeter of the room definitely created an optical illusion to anybody who could see it. Heavy novels and lighter works were packed away with care on the wooden shelves, some of the books spilling out over the ledges and onto the floor in stacks of faded paper and old leather. Settled just in the center of the room was a single desk, laden with unorganized sheets of blank paper and wires that streamed from the small microphone standing next to a sound system. 

The quiet sounds that were once created by nature were now born from the Host's narrations, soft whispers that flitted about the room whenever he broadcasted something. The Host never really knew who was listening, but it felt nice to know that there was at least somebody else listening to his old tales and ideas. 

The Author depended on a lack of human contact in order to work, but the Host thrived off of it and that was something that he was truly thankful for. There was still a desire for space that he could never really shake off, and his office was indeed designed to hold only one person, but the Host was more than happy to make accommodations for a certain guest. 

Namely, a deep black armchair that the Host made sure was positioned just in front of the shelf that he had packed with murder mysteries.

With a sharp rapping at the door, the Host knew that the guest that he had long since entertained had arrived. With a smile that faintly perked the corners of his mouth up, the Host called out behind him without turning away from the collection of poetry he had immersed himself in. 

"Darkiplier should know by now that he is welcome in the Host's office at any time, and yet he still insists on knocking. As he enters the room, he still feels no reason to agree with the Host when it comes to the usefulness of pleasantries." 

The Host heard the sound of cushions being pressed down upon and the dull rustling of papers coming from behind him. A faint ringing followed shortly after, not intense enough to cause any pain, but just prevalent enough to make sure that the Host was aware of its presence. 

"I'm not getting into this conversation with you again," Dark replied from his seat, his voice holding a faint hint of amusement as he slid the novel he had previously borrowed back into the empty space of the shelf. "But good impressions stem from manners." 

The Host let out a chuckle, his fingers tracing the edges of the page he was reading. "The Host does find that point accurate, but he really must argue against the use of manners in such a casual setting." 

A different novel was slipped out of the shelf, the old paper crinkling open as Dark flicked through the pages before settling down on the first page. "You make it sound like I'm treating this like a meeting," he said, his voice slowly growing quieter as he read the first few lines. 

"Because you are."

That earned a scowl from Dark as he glared at the back of the Host's head. "Fine," he muttered, holding the new book up as the Host's chuckles evolved into laughter. Despite the seemingly infinite amount of hatred that Dark could conjure up in just a few words, all of that seemed to go missing as soon as he stepped into the Host's office. 

Their conversation faded away, leaving the two in the quiet company of the other as they lost themselves in the world of fiction. 

While there may not have been any natural sounds coming from the office, the Host found himself enjoying the sound of mumbled narrations and a faint ringing even more. 

-

Dark would always find himself indebted to the Host in some way or another. 

It wasn't as if he was seeking out favors from the Host, but he always found something left for him. Whether it was a place in his office or a mysterious amount of murder mysteries suddenly appearing in the shelf behind him, or even just a quiet place to sit and wait out the day, the Host always had something to offer him. And Dark hated it. 

The actions that the Author did for him were grand enough, but all of these little acts of kindness that the Host did just seem like a slow continuation of his legacy. Dark was always the one who received something from either of them, never having the chance to return the gestures or failing miserably if he tried. Of course, he allowed the Host to stay with him as just one small payment for everything else that he had done, but the Host just continued to raise the price ever higher. 

Dark didn't notice it at first since he was still embedded in the midst of his novel, but now that he focused on reality, he recognized the distinct lack of narrations coming from the Host. Glancing up, he saw the Host slouched over his desk, his head buried in his arms as his chest slowly rose and fell with deep breaths. With the number of aching joints that Dark already had to deal with, he could recognize at least three different places that the Host would find sore when he woke up, so Dark quietly bookmarked the page he was reading and tucked it away in his jacket. 

Taking care not to wake up the Host as he walked, Dark approached the sleeping man and took care in moving his head so he could wrap one arm around his chest. Heaving the Host up, Dark swept the other arm under his knees as he stepped back into his aura. With the way Wilford was running through the halls lately, Dark couldn't guarantee a peaceful waking should he run into the enthusiastic shooter. 

The familiar journey through the nothingness was relatively quick since the distance he needed to travel wasn't very far at all, the shadows reconnecting to form a nearly empty bedroom in a matter of seconds. Before he knew it, Dark was standing in the Host's rarely-used bedroom. The lights were dim, leaving the room in a gray spectrum that seemed to invite fatigue. 

Dark set the Host down in his bed, pulling the covers over him before he turned to leave. However, a sharp grasp on his hand nearly had him jump as he swivelled around with the pitch of his ringing becoming a scream. It was quickly soothed by the sight of the still slumbering Host though, still unconscious to the world around him. Dark suspected that it was a dream that had influenced him to reach out, but he wasn't willing to test that theory now. 

Instead, he sat on the edge of the mattress, settling down as he rested his head on his palm. Even though he was wary of falling asleep in front of others, he allowed himself to close his eyes as his head drooped down in the faint light of the room. 

Work could be completed later, and since he couldn't just organize one large event for the Host in order to even start paying back his debt, Dark would just have to return his gratitude like the Host did. 

One small action at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh wow i finally finished something.  
> anyways, i hope you guys at least found something mildly entertaining in all of this because this bitch is on summer vacation and has all of the free time in the world. 
> 
> i might post a few of my own stories, but i'm open to requests should anyone ask. feel free to ask for stuff about the egos.
> 
> alright thanks for sticking around then. 
> 
> \- Q


End file.
